


Of silk blouses and warm hearts

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossdressing, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Paul's a supportive boyfriend everyone deserves, Self-Acceptance, they are in their mid 30s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26713045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: John's gives in and purchases women's clothes to try on, to feed the curiosity he's supressed for decades. He doesn't expect Paul to pay him a visit.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56





	1. Harsh evening

**Author's Note:**

> something I'd been wanting to write for ages, note how yet again they end up hugging and drifting to sleep, that's my kink I suppose
> 
> I definitely plan on writing more about the beatles exploring their softer sides (Oscar Wilde approves), if you happen to have any ideas/requests you can share them below or write me on [tumblr](https://dusted-0negin.tumblr.com)
> 
> bis dann, damy i gospoda

The first time it happened, John was 6 or 7 years old, and Mimi just treated him for ice cream.

They sat on a bench in a park, John naively wishing his legs would touch the ground already, soft breeze balancing the too-burning-for-May Sun.

Suddenly a girl giggled too loudly to be ignored, and John's eyes followed the sound till they landed on a group of 4 women - probably a mother, grandmother and aunt - cheering the aforementioned girl as she was showing off her new dress.

Her features hadn't caught his attention as much as the garment. Cobalt blue with short sleeves, peter pan collar and red buttons. The skirt swirled around with each spin.

Mesmerising.

Melted ice-cream, now resembling colourful goo, covered his hand, luring him back from the world of fantasies.

Suddenly ashamed - either for staring at strange people (auntie would tsk) or having his fingers sticky - he felt like he should do something.

"Beautiful."

Mimi glanced to the same direction then, totally unaware of her nephew's thoughts, smiled.

"Yes, it's a very nice little girl."

A week later, when left home alone, John stood in front of the gigantic mirror in the hallway.

Recalling the encounter, he closed his eyes and turned around a few times as if he too was sporting a new outfit.

Odd emptiness nestled inside his chest, precisely when John's fingers grazed the rough wool of his sweater, and he realised nothing magical had happened.

  


  


The first and only person to find out was Stuart. As much as John'd perfected the mask for others, he rarely befooled Sutcliffe.

They shared a flat, which provided them with the privacy they yearned as well as opportunities to focus on art and, ehm, the social aspect of their lives. Meaning they spend too much time breathing on each other's neck to keep up their facades.

It was the first Friday night since the beginning of the semester they stayed in as opposed to countless parties brimming with booze, flings and drugs.

John lay sprawled on the sofa, indulging himself in a book while Stuart opted for finishing a painting he'd worked on out of school.

Both concentrated on the task at hand, yet the atmosphere reminded John of the home he had never had. The lack of a supportive family environment painfully apparent. Especially in times like those.

When one began to realise they might not fit the heterosexual box and simultaneously started to develop feelings for his best mate. 

The perverted fascination with feminine clothes pushed aside, creating an illusion of normality. 

"I found your sketchbook." 

John almost choked on his saliva, feeling needles of fear stinging his sweaty skin. How could he be so careless with an item that was filled with autoportraits of him in model-esque poses, clad in dresses, skirts, ruffled blouses, lingerie...

"And?"

Opting for an offensive approach not to waste any time, if Stuart wanted to sneer at him, call him a degenerate, there was no point in pretending he had nothing to do with the object.

Still, his growl was more of a wounded than reckless wolf, salty tears pricking his eyes. 

"Thought you should have it back." Stuart didn't interrupt painting, his voice poised and hushed as ever. "Put it on your nightstand, thought I'd let you know."

Never the one to decipher the knotty mess called emotions, John had no idea what Stuart's next move would be, remaining silent. 

"I think it looks dapper, nothing to be ashamed of."

John's teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, the iron-like flavour of blood forever interlinked with the gratitude and relief he felt.

They had never discussed it further, but Stuart sent him fashion magazines for "artistic purposes", and later on, when he moved to Hamburg, he introduced him to the underground scene - where a man in a dress was the least peculiar thing to stumble upon.

  


  


Now, over 10 years later, the buried secret began to torture John again.

It wasn't as if life treated him like a scum, quite the opposite, Paul and he worked it out - learning they'd been oblivious idiots. His career as an artist had been thriving without any mishaps, the crappy vision the only health issue troubling him.

Still, he didn't feel beautiful. He never did save for when Paul enveloped him in warm praises and ministrations. But it didn't take long for the ferine thoughts to join him. Would Paul treat him the same if he knew? Wouldn't he leave him?

He tried to ignore delicate dresses on glossy pages, locked all garments he had pretended to buy for his paintings into a wardrobe in the attic. Nothing helped.

Desperate not to push Paul away John did exactly that. Finding excuses, pretending happiness illuminated every second of his life, ignoring the look of hurt in his boyfriend's eyes whenever he tried to be intimate and collided with the walls Lennon'd carefully raised.

Their relationship'd been crumbling under the weight of John's naive desire. He welcomed Paul's business-related trip as a tinge of fresh air. Unfortunately, his own fear remained wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a boa.

In the spur of self-hatred, John scrolled through endless websites with fashion items, the lack of dimension driving him mad.

Finally, after yet another sleepless night, he threw all his inhibitions to the wind and stumbled out of his house.

He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears was torn between giving up and indulge his crippled part, at least once.

He didn't underestimate the preparations - got all his measurements jotted down and converted to different sizes, images of dreamy items carved in his mind.

He even spent enough time with pondering the right excuse if any curious shop assistant - "Yes, he is shopping for his girlfriend, ain't that sweet? Indeed, pale blue is not flattering for every skin tone, those runway ideas had to be taken with a grain of salt. Oh, a sale? How lovely, really lifts one's spirits. Thank you! Goodbye." 

He ignored sweat polling and the juncture of his lower back. Avoided thinking about what would Mimi call him.

When the embarrassment became too much, he bought a disgusting sweater with numbers at the front from the men's section.

Finally home, he let out a shuddering breath and dashed to the bathroom - the first time needed to be perfect.

A mundane routine of showering transformed into a beauty ritual worth Marie-Antoniette's envy. 

Clad in a bathrobe, skin softened by rose-scented lotion, John cautiously unfolded the goods, fingers lingering at every crease and seam.

He'd pondered what to wear for 20 minutes, a shivering hand hovered above a pair of levander knickers before grasping them.

"Jumping down my own rabbit holes, eh?" He snickered, the situation somehow surreal, bringing back a memory of a quote.

"There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed."

The garment delicately hugged his form as opposed to his usual underwear, the elastic resting on his high waist. If it wasn't for the outline of his dick, he could pass for a lass, a seductively curved one at that.

Thrilled upon what he saw when glancing down, John hurried to put on a matching babydoll, not daring to tempt the deceptive system of choosing the right bra.

He slipped into simple black stockings on the third attempt, almost calling off the whole spectacle. With a victorious gleam in the eyes and beads of sweat framing his forehead, John put on a black silk blouse and tucked it into a pine green, midi pencil skirt.

He wouldn't guess the person staring at him from the mirror was, in fact, the same John Lennon the outside world knew.

John adored the way his lips swayed, the disdain towards his body proportions far away, probably waiting for the moment he'd sneak into his usual clothes again. He struck a pose, tentatively exploring the rage of motions, giggling delightfully whenever the fabric rustled. 

Inspecting the whole outfit, he noted how murky it all appeared and decided to switch into a mulberry blouse instead.

The colour complemented his skin tone nicely, highlighting the rosiness of his cheeks. Even the ginger tint of John's hair shone more intensively, oddly reminding him of Julia. 

Adorning the whole look with a splash of perfume, John pondered the next combination, humming a made-up tune. 

Setting his eyes on the lump of clothes, he gravitated to the floral top and began to undress.

His whole body trembling with ideas, he didn't hear the slam of the main door and continued pulling the blouse over his head.

"John?"

Whipping around, terrified, he realised Paul was standing in the doorframe of his bedroom. The same Paul who should be abroad. Who should never see him like that. 

_nononononon_

The blouse fell back, crumpled, and bile travelled up to his throat. The feeling of disgust clamped his throat, preventing John from uttering a word. He wished for Paul to speak up, but his expression remained blank except a wrinkle between his brows, a sign of his brain processing the scene in front of him.

John's lungs betrayed him, for he observed how complicated breathing became. Through a blurred vision he saw Paul taking a step forward, palms lifted in a comforting gesture.

A pained whine was punched from the depth of his soul as soon as he felt two arms encircling his waist, pulling him closer.

Not an ounce of strength left within his body, John clutched at his partner - if this was their goodbye, he needed to have something to remember.

Paul's breath was tickling his ear and the fact that he didn't push him off, not yet, shattered the barricade John'd built to man up, as his auntie used to say.

A wretched sob broke through before tears started to pour freely, years of inhibition flowing out, wetting John's cheeks and soaking Paul's shirt.

He tried to articulate an apology, stutter an explanation, but each attempt sent him into a hiccupping fit. John pitied Paul for having to sustain his boyfriend weeping like a 5-year-old, keeping his eyes shut, he could only envision what he looked like - sputum smudged all over his face, eyes puffy, obscure sounds leaving his lips.

Somehow, John'd lost track of time ages ago, Paul lowered himself down, still enveloping John. After some shuffling, he found a comfortable position and with his back supported by the bed moved his lover's body, so he practically lay on Paul's chest.

Tears taking their tool, John's head buzzed as if a flock of bees was circling him. He realised Paul's was whispering sweet nothings into his hair, his hands smoothening the material of John's clothes.

For a fraction of a second, John felt beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quote is from American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis


	2. Tender morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go, a bit shorter than intended, but I felt it would lose its charm, if we can talk about any charm at all

The following morning found John buried neck-deep in soft pillows and warm blankets.

Not recalling falling asleep, he jolted into a sitting position, cursing when the bright daylight struck his eyes.

He squinted, carefully taking in the surroundings as if Paul would pack all his belongings overnight and flee the country.

His breath calmed down upon seeing nothing had changed - Paul's guitar stood still in the corner, some of his clothes were neatly folded on the chair, an expensive watch lay on the nightstand.

The pulled-open curtains foretold positive news, too. It was a silent agreement between them, John hated sunlight prodding his face while sleeping, and Paul, ever the early bird, only drew them apart when he stayed over, his presence a bribe John would gladly accept. Even now, if he pricked his ears, sounds of a morning McCartney rummaging through kitchen cabinets comforted him with their familiarity.

Then the memories from last evening started flowing back, effectively staining every remaining ounce of hope.

A wrinkle nestled between John's brows as he scolded himself for...his unpreparedness? Oversensitivity? Or the fact that he enjoyed how the blouse caressed his skin?

One thing was for sure, the whole situation couldn't be solved without some kind of a discussion, however jarring.

The shame transformed into heat, and in an attempt to refresh himself John kicked off the covers. Not only it didn't help, for the shame still lingered, but the whole outfit was on display, mocking him.

Maybe he should change into "his" clothes? The kind which makes him look normal, ordinary, the outside John. Fake it till you make it, they said, John had sure seen those words many times, snorted at their meaningless depth and moved on. 

But now. Now he prayed it would work, would be this easy, and the heavy burden would disappear. He raced to the bathroom, relieved himself, then remained in front of the mirror, splotching ice-cold water on his face.

He would go back, change, find Paul, apologise. 

Except when the old door creaked open it revealed Paul sitting on John's side of the bed, a tray with tea and breakfast placed carefully on the nightstand.

"Oh," he almost chirped, albeit with a pinch of uneasiness, if his eyes wandering between John and random furniture were of any indication. "You're up."

"Ah, yeah," John responded with a face as blank as possible. He trotted back to the bed, shying away from his boyfriend, and resumed the previous position, wrapping blankets around himself till only his head was peeking. "Up and early as you can see."

"John-"

Something akin to a worry flicked across Paul's face, his voice soft. It didn't reassure John, and he rushed to interrupt whatever speech Macca had prepared.

"WE SHOULD TALK!"

The volume could have been lower, but it definitely served its purpose -- silencing Paul -- as his mouth opened a few times before settling still. He lifted his hand, inching it to John -- a comforting gesture -- then let it collapse on the blanket, fiddling with its hem.

"We don't have to right now, you know-"

"I want to. Please."

He tried to sound confident, a difficult task considering it could be the last talk they had as lovers. Maybe the barely audible please convinced Paul, as he surrendered.

An awkward silence stretched for longer then John'd estimated before Paul cleared his throat.

"So," he stopped himself, the corner of his lips twitching as they always did when he searched for appropriate words. "Are you-are you trans?"

John blinked at him, absolutely not expecting a question like this. Or any in general.

"No, I don't think I am. No."

Paul nodded, brows furrowed, and John braced himself for whatever would come next.

"It is just clothing then?"

It was half a question, half a statement. This time was John's turn to frown.

"Yeah, mostly clothes, I-" he could sense his cheeks getting red, talking about the whole situation was even more embarrassing than actually doing it. "-I like the creams and perfumes too. They are lovely... I feel like I'm lovely when putting them on." 

God, and now he was gibbering away how lovely he felt. As if he could kid anybody including himself. The sting of tears welling up caused him to flinch. Was yesterday not enough? Panicking, John had no brighter idea than to slide under the blanket completely.

The hand splayed on the blanket teetered up till it rested on his knee. At first, the fingers timidly tickled the protruding bone as if to ask whether it was alright before the grasp grew steadier.

"You are lovely."

It took a few minutes for the words to sift through the foggy mind of John Lennon.

"No, I'm not. There is something wrong with me."

Paul must hear him despite him mumbling, for he could sense him scooting closer. 

"Can I see you, Johnny?" 

John could feel tremors jogging up and down his body, the words so far away from the reality he'd lived in he refused to believe them. A sudden wave of anger towards himself, the world anything...so carefully tucked inside him, took over, and he began to thrash about.

"I don't want you to see me. You shouldn't have seen me like-like THAT. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting."

He would have pushed Paul away if it hadn't been for his exhaustion and unfair position.

Instead, he held on the last barricade -- the blanket -- stubbornly refusing to let go.

It was nothing compared to a determined McCartney who tugged on the said object with verve twice as strong, gaining the upper-hand as time flew by. 

John resurfaced with a look denying the existence of dignity - face red, smeared with tears and sweat, his heart beating fast and mouth dry.

"There you are."

Paul's adoring gaze almost convinced John it could be true, the love Paul'd been talking about. His lips stayed sealed, nevertheless.

Paul's hands brushed his bangs aside before travelling down, getting rid of the blanket and arranging the skirt (SKIRT!!). John had never been that mortified, his body tense, afraid of destroying the tender moment.

"I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell me. And even more sorry I hadn't noticed anything. So sorry. You are lovely, without dresses or scented soaps, event hough you don't believe me. What I'm trying to say is, ehm, I want you to be happy, and if this makes you happy, I want you to do it without hiding it and cringing at yourself, right?"

"So," John narrowed his eyes, suspicious of any possible hurdles. "We aren't breaking up?"

Paul inhaled deeply before crawling fully onto the bed and sitting next to him, the bedpost supporting his back. Usually, John would plop himself all over him, not wasting a second to be affectionate, but now his body didn't budge an inch. It was Paul who tugged him closer and connected their lips in a first kiss in almost 2 weeks.

"Don't be daft. I can't imagine the world without you."

John didn't trust his voice, nor did he know the proper answer. For now, he simply buried his face into Paul's ugly sweater, the action mimicking a cat expressing its fondness.

He felt weightless, every strained fibre of his body melting as Paul touched him as if he was a fragile porcelain teacup. He manoeuvred John so he was facing him.

"I was wondering, you don't have to, course, but, would-would you show me what you bought?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also I wondered about writing an extra chapter about John showing off his outfits (imagine all the fluff possibilities), as it didn't fit in this chapter. Would anybody be interested in that?


	3. Goofy afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your daily dose of über-supportive Paul, thanks for the lovely comments, really kicked my arse to write another chapter 🌌

_"I was wondering, you don't have to, course, but, would-would you show me what you bought?"_

Panic rushed over John. Despite imagining what it would be to exist freely beside Paul, exposing all his secrets in a way that would leave him bare and fragile, those dreams never surpassed the border between the real world and fantasies.

"I mean," he shrugged, "you've already seen them when you had to clean the bed."

Because he did. John realised that after Paul's question, tried to imagine the whole situation -- him passed out after hours of crying, Paul having to rummage through every item to make sure the bed was ready -- laughable for the outsiders, unpleasant for participants.

"I didn't really pay any attention to it. You know how it is with me and fashion."

Well, that was true, if anything, John could be labelled as the chic one. His patience tested every time Paul declared old shirts with holes and missing sleeves as 'just barely worn out and ready for another 10 years'. 

"Okay," John smiled fondly, reviving the memories. "I-I think I could show you, if you, if you are okay with that. ARE YOU?"

The stress caused him to shift backwards, to the awkward stage of puberty, because nothing could explain the unruly way his voice demonstrated itself -- oscillating between loud and hushed, raspy and smooth, high-pitched and, well, even more high-pitched. 

Paul remained composed, holding the eye-contact as he gestured to the pile of clothes, folded neatly, of course, on the other side of the room.

"Very okay."

"Right-o, so, I just need to...." John straightened himself and hesitantly exited the bed, wobbly legs leading him to the source of his misery. 

He eyed the stack warily, then turned to Paul with a look of uncertainty. "What the heck am I supposed to do now, like?"

Paul, every inch the professional adult, rushed to help. 

"I could go to make another tea and read a book, perhaps? So you can change into something you'd like me to see and just call me whenever you are ready, yeah? If you feel like you don't want to do it, like you're not ready, that's alright, too."

In moments like those John truly sensed the emotional bond they shared, doubting he would be able to carry out the whole procedure under Paul's supervision.

He gave him a tiny nod, and breathed a little lighter upon seeing a hint of blush on Paul's face -- sometimes John's spiralling anxiety clouded his perception of others, making him forget they, too, could get swept by nervousness.

He listened as Paul's steps became more distant and began to dig through his purchasing. The first time required something extraordinary yet comfortable, therefore, all dresses were dismissed as low hanging fruit.

A burgundy skirt caught his attention, it was a classical A-line cut, sufficient for not showing off his tummy or thighs, somehow, after all those years he couldn't bring himself to stop scrutinizing his body. 

He dug deeper till his hands found a cotton blouse adorned by a floral application. Looked pretty folkloric, Paul had inclined towards folkloric music lately, so that would be a nice twist...or not. 

John tugged at the short sleeves, the only downside, as if the action would lengthen them, then added a chunky cardigan and headed to the bathroom.

This time, he felt as if he was watching everything from the corner of the room. Frankly, it was better that way, as John welcomed the disassociation as a form of distraction from a bunch of cruel movies in his head. 

What if Paul regretted his decision as soon as he saw the result?

Nevertheless, John managed to put on lingerie, stockings (got it properly on on the first try, too), everything. He even repeated the action of coating his body in a scented lotion after the shower. 

If he relied solely on his own judgment, it didn't look lousy, the blouse tucked in the skirt creating a nice silhouette, the materials floaty and not restricting or coarse.

He checked himself from every angle possible, took a deep breath and forced himself to peek to the short corridor.

Initially, John's plan consisted of the element of surprise, meaning he would walk all the way to the living room and presented himself to Paul. 

His confidence defused significantly with each garment, and John was glad his nerves allowed him to croak a small "Paul".

Just as he was pondering if Paul did hear him, the man in question politely knocked on the door. 

Under different conditions, the gesture would abet John to mock Paul's manners, but on that day he appreciated it and rushed to the other side of the room, frantically adjusting every tiny detail.

"Yes!"

His eyes were fixed on the way the handle moved, slowly revealing his boyfriend, and how casually Paul appeared as he strode to sit on the bed.

John couldn't bear the silence, especially when he Paul's eyes raked over his whole body, he COULD feel that as well as his cheeks growing hotter each minute.

"Well?? Are you going to say something?"

John flinched at his own tone, noticing how his hands rested against his hips, resembling a pissed housewife. 

"Sorry, sorry, I-I didn't mean, didn't-"

The string of his incoherent apologies was interrupted by the sound of Paul's voice.

"No, no, I'm sorry, it's just...you do look great."

"Yeah?"

Doubt still interlocked John's thoughts, but he must admit the idea of Paul liking it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine -- as if someone patted a cat's head.

"Yeah, took my breath away, even."

John did not plan on giving up that easily. No matter how his heart fluttered at the compliment.

"Not like an ugly crone? Be honest, Paul."

"Like the most lovely, charming lad, you are" his boyfriend patted the spot next to him. "Now, could you come closer, please?"

Resembling a skittish animal, John inched a hair closer, then stopped in front of Paul.

"You don't have to go with that, I can change, I wouldn't mind, not aHH-"

John's tirade was cut short when Paul's dainty fingers wrapped around John's forearm, tenderly yanking him forward. John's mouth opened and closed for a couple more times as he processed the reality - he was seated on Paul's lap, the other man's hands securing him firmly, in WOMEN'S clothes. If it was a dream, John wished not to wake up.

A few minutes later he became aware of tears rolling down his cheek. Goddamnit.

He gingerly hid his face to the crook of Paul's neck, testing the waters, when no negative reaction followed, he dared to plant a fleeting kiss just above Paul's collar.

"So, you really like it?"

Paul only hummed in response, tracing individual flowers.

"I adore it." He chuckled next to John's ear, the sound warming his hear. "You smell nice, too," John could hear him sniff, his smaller nose buried into the tuft of auburn hair. "Like some fancy flowers."

"Roses." John just so-so suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Roses then. Very nice." His fingers slipped down, tentatively toying with the skirt. "This is pretty, too, soft and shiny. Makes me look like a right boor, though."

John, pretty much sinking into another snooze, shot up at the last sentence.

"You are always good looking." He offered, relishing the way the corners of Paul's eyes wrinkled as he spared him a grin.

"I was hoping you would let me try on something. Not a skirt or dress, I don't think, don't suppose that's for me, but some nice shirt, hmm, could be lovely."

"Oh."

John had no idea what to do. He would lie if he said he hadn't dressed Paul in his head. Or anybody, really, there was a sketched collection for Martha from when he had flu. Dapper hats and everything.

"Nice shirt?' He enquired.

"Nice shirt," Paul confirmed.

In instance, John was up and alert, sprinting off and back with a colourful shirt. The cut resembling the one Paul wore, save for the balloon sleeves, only made of the material prone to be arranged as opposed to those stiff white collars. The colours weren't too flashy, if anything Paul's dark hair and huge eyes seemed to shine brighter.

He unfastened the first two buttons gracefully, rolled up the sleeves and turned to face John. 

"Looks alright?"

The drought in John's mouth prevented him from uttering the right words to thank his precious boyfriend, but he crossed his fingers Paul would get the message through the tight hug and shower of kisses. 

The rest of the day flew in a tempo more hectic than the morning had indicated. They had a very late breakfast, after which Paul focused on work-related papers while John organised their closet. When the last of the skirts hung, right next to Paul's tailored suits and his own jeans, to John it looked like it'd always been like that. 

They went for a nice evening walk, Paul still flaunting the floral shirt his boyfriend picked up. For once ohn didn't mind the slacks he replaced the skirt with. Mainly because he kept on the shirt and sweater, but the fact the underwear stayed on, lacy and silky, like a secret he shared with Paul, contributed to his contentment. 

When they finally snuck to the bed, a cloud of rose scent around them, John felt light. He knew it wasn't a permanent victory over his troubled mind, but, with Paul's breath tickling his nape; hands wrapped around his waist, another huge step didn't scare him that much. 

He dreamt of a larva turning into a colourful butterfly, watched it spread its wings and flee, the frail moment of metamorphism. And in his sleep John sighed and drowsily interlocked their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anybody needs a visual of their clothes (like me), here you go: [John's blouse](https://assetsprx.matchesfashion.com/img/product/outfit_1337184_1_zoom.jpg), [John's skirt](https://assetsprx.matchesfashion.com/img/product/1382866_6_large.jpg?width=600&quality=90&), [John's cardigan](https://assetsprx.matchesfashion.com/img/product/outfit_1378773_1_zoom.jpg) and [Paul's shirt](https://assetsprx.matchesfashion.com/img/product/outfit_1307709_1_zoom.jpg)
> 
> did I spend more time picking up their outfits than actually writing the story? you bet


End file.
